How to Find Love in a Bookshop

by Veronica Henry

But if recent events had taught him one thing, it was to accept kindness. With alacrity, before people changed their minds.

It was a mystery, though, why there was no bookshop in such an appealing place. After all, a town without a bookshop was a town without a heart.

Books told you things, everything you needed to know, but you didn’t talk back to them.

“There are some people who leave a bigger hole than others, and your father is one of them.”

But when you were shy and overweight and not very clever and terrible at sports, it turned out that no one was especially interested in you, even if you were sweet and kind and caring.

“Really? Because happy people don’t try to make other people feel bad.”

She watched Marlowe tune up, fascinated, always intrigued by the way a true musician handled an instrument with absolute confidence and mastery. She could never take her playing to the next level because she was always slightly afraid the instrument was in charge, rather than the other way around.

Brilliant musicians were brilliant because they practiced, not just because they had talent.

Perhaps it was better to focus on that than her grief, a little black bundle she opened only when she knew no one was around.

There’s a book for everyone, even if they don’t think there is. A book that reaches in and grabs your soul.”

They had always given each other scarves at Christmas. After all, no one ever questioned a new scarf the way they might a piece of jewelry, yet they were pleasingly intimate.

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And she knew, from all the books she had ever read, that life was complicated, that love sprang from nowhere sometimes, and that forbidden love wasn’t always something to be ashamed of.

I have lots of favorites. That’s the trouble with books. You can never choose your favorite. It changes depending on your mood.

As she looked at the results of their afternoon’s work, Thomasina felt slightly better about herself. Thank God for cooking, she thought. Cooking never let her down. It was what she did best, so she should focus on that and forget about Jem.

Just before she stepped over the threshold, she stood and measured how she felt. It still hurt, even now. That dull tug deep inside her, the one that never left. She imagined it as a tangle of scar tissue that would never be allowed to heal.

Halfway through, she stopped reading. She found it too sad, the memories. She wasn’t that girl anymore. It was a part of whom she had become, but she didn’t need to go back and revisit the pain. She knew now that everyone had heartbreak in their life at some point. What had happened didn’t make her special or unusual. It was part of being human. A broken heart was, after all, the source material of myriad books. Some of those books had become her comfort, and had made her realize she was not alone.

“You weren’t that bad!” Why was he fibbing? She’d made him feel like the worst husband and father on earth. He was fibbing because getting Mia back was more important than proving a point. He was fibbing because life was too short and he had been irresponsible and let her down, occasionally. But he’d learned, and he loved his son with a passion, and more than anything, he realized he wanted Finn to have a family.

“So how’s this book going to end, then?” “Oh, happily,” said Marlowe. “Like all the best books. And it would be called . . . How to Find Love in a Bookshop.” They stood holding each other, tighter than tight. “It sounds,” said Emilia, “like the best book ever written. I shall order fifty copies at once.”

The two of them walked out together into the melee, then drifted apart among the throngs. They would always have a tie, because of their secret, but it didn’t need to be vocalized. They knew they would be there for each other, if they ever wanted to share a moment’s reflection, or memory, and they would give each other comfort. It was an unusual situation, thought Emilia, but then—what was usual? The whole point of life was you couldn’t ever be sure what would happen next. Sometimes what happened was good, sometimes not, but there were always surprises.